No Time
by Blonde Pickle Mule
Summary: "Time, why wasn't there any time? Time to get to the top of the building, time to pull his genius best friend that could be so stupid away from that bloody ledge..." Spoilers for 2x03.


**Disclaimer: Sherlock and all its characters do not belong to me.**

**During "The Reichenbach Fall." **

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><p>"Please, will you do this for me?" On top of the building Sherlock had his arm thrown out, a tall black silhouette against a backdrop of clouds, trench-coat billowing about his knees. John froze, the phone glued to his ear, his own arm reaching up to placate him. He could feel his whole body going numb, every nerve in him screaming that something was horribly, horribly wrong here. Sherlock was panicking. Sherlock wasn't supposed to panic. That just wasn't what he did- he was the calm, collected one who looked at the rest of the human race with despair and pointed it out to them just because he could. He was the one that could look at a person and tell you everything about them from their mum's middle name to how the mud got on their dog's back feet. He had never been the one to panic.<p>

"Do what?" John asked, a deep crease digging into his forehead. On the other end of the line he heard Sherlock take a deep breath.

"This phone call, it's erm, it's my note." Sherlock had stumbled on his words. _Sherlock_ hadn't known what to say- another thing that just wasn't supposed to happen. "It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

The numbness was swept aside by a cold flood of dread, sinking into John's heart like morning frost. "Leave a note when?" His hands were shaking, his breath seeming to stick in his throat. _This wasn't happening ._There was only one explanation he could think of, but it was right at the top of the list of things that Sherlock didn't do that he couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Good bye, John."

His heart gave a wild leap of terror inside his chest. "Don't-" His pulse was hammering wildly, thudding in his ears. He reeled like he'd been hit; the breath leaving him like he'd had it knocked out of him. All of a sudden a loud clattering met his ears on the other end of the line- the sound of a phone being thrown across the floor. The world sped up again. "SHERLOCK!"

Time, why wasn't there any time? Time to get to the top of the building, time to pull his genius best friend that could be so _stupid _away from that bloody ledge, time to kick some sense into the one man that usually had so much of it he put the rest of the world to shame. John started forward, stumbling slightly over his own feet, not _daring _to take his eyes off Sherlock. A small irrational part of him thought that if he kept watching then Sherlock wouldn't dare jump.

But of course, the only thing Sherlock Holmes ever did was dare. In one fluid sweep of his arms the world's only consultant detective stepped off the ledge, while down on the ground John was left to grapple with reality.

"Sherlock," he murmured, his hands dropping down to his sides. His heart was thudding incessantly, the world was swimming before his eyes and all he could do was watch the black figure fall, a blur of flailing limbs, pale skin and the folds of a trench coat being pulled down to earth.

_Thud. _Even from so many feet away John would always swear he heard the sound of Sherlock hitting the pavement, and as the sickening sound reached his ears his head began to spin. The world seemed to fall away. All that was left was a still picture where sound and feeling didn't exist.

Suddenly the picture began to move, still locked in its terrible, terrible silence. Then John realised that he was running, and that this wasn't a picture at all. This was the real world. But how could it be real if Sherlock had just...had just... He rounded the corner and was confronted with a small figure lost in the grey sea of the pavement, face down with an alarming amount of red liquid spreading out around it.

The world became a picture again as John ground to a halt, unable to comprehend that this was _Sherlock _he was looking at. He stared dumbly for a few seconds, in so much shock that he didn't even feel the side-on impact. When the biker hit him he didn't realise that he was falling until he hit the ground. His thud was a lot lighter than Sherlock's, but he still went sprawling, his cheek connecting painfully with the road. He groaned, and somehow the sound cut through his world of silence.

Dimly he could see people in blue- paramedics. People in coats- pedestrians. And there, in the middle of it all...Sherlock. The ground was swaying alarmingly beneath his feet, but he managed to stand and keep moving forwards. "Sher...Sher..." the word seemed to keep getting stuck. "Sherlock."

As soon as he said it all the urgency rushed back and he ran again, ignoring the fact the ground still wasn't staying still. Nothing mattered but Sherlock, getting to his side, helping him because there was no way he was already...already... Through the ice that was still lingering in his blood John began to feel sick.

The crowd looked up as he reached them; hollow eyed and dazed looking as he pushed through the barrier they made with a surprising strength.

"I'm a doctor, let me through. Let me come through please." His words were slurring slightly, unable to form properly from under a haze of disbelief. When they tried to hold him back the strength began to drain out of him. Half of Sherlock's face was visible from under his blood soaked hair. A buzzing sound was filling up his ears as his hands clutched at the air in front of him. "He's my friend, he's my friend, please..."

In the confusion of restraining hands and traumatised bodies John found Sherlock's cold wrist and clutched at it desperately. When it hung lifelessly in his grip the last of his strength slipped away and as he was pulled back he caught sight of Sherlock's empty eyes, before everything started spinning sickeningly all over again.

"Jesus..."he slurred, blinking heavily. "God no..."

His sight blurred, and suddenly he was on the ground, his head lolling against someone's arm. He wanted to protest as they lifted Sherlock onto a hospital trolley, but his body didn't want to do what he told it to. After a moment he stopped trying, his limbs hanging uselessly at his side.

He wasn't sure what happened to him next. It was all a bit dim in his memory, but somehow he got himself back to the flat. He stumbled clumsily up the steps, almost tripping over the railing before managing to get the door open. The sight of the familiar, slightly cluttered hallway was enough to make tears come into John's eyes. His hands started shaking again as he shut the door behind him, Sherlock's blank eyes surfacing in his memory.

Mrs Hudson came clattering through from the kitchen, a long-suffering expression on her face. "Sherlock, _what _have I told you about experiments in the-" she stopped her tirade, the bag of congealed goo hanging limply from her hand. "Whatever is the matter, John? Where's Sherlock?"

John took a deep breath, caught sight of Sherlock's favourite scarf hanging from the hat stand and burst into tears.

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><p><strong>So...there it is. I don't think it's my best writing, but to me it's a kind of catharsis after the last episode in the series. Moffat is a mean person to make me cry like that. And to leave it at that ending. I can't wait to see how they explain that one. <strong>


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